The free issue of The Times of London that I picked up recently as I boarded a plane from Heathrow to Boston still lies open on my desk. The top news is of the Queen on her way to the state opening of Parliament just the day before, routine for her even at age 90, except that “she took the lift in the Palace of Westminster for the first time before delivering her speech.” In the accompanying photo she is elegant, riding in her gold-trimmed coach and surrounded by the palace guards in their black bearskin hats (or maybe they’re wearing a substitute for the originals, objected to by animal rights activists a few years ago), atop their bright red livery. My, how I admire her.
Why don’t I simply toss that newspaper into my recycling bin, along with all the other magazines from the first week home, rather than keeping it here in plain sight? It has something to do with my identity. There might also be another piece to read, like one I noticed yesterday entitled “In Notting Hill, the Powerful and Posh Wear Flat Shoes,” about an office controversy currently raging in London. Being there, I’d been following it and was curious about the latest twist.
Of course, I’m not a Brit, but through numerous visits to the United Kingdom over nearly a lifetime and especially as a result of living in London for two years during a teaching stint at the American School there, I hang on to feeling just a little bit English, even living here in the U.S.
Flying home, I reflected on my heartfelt connection to things British, my sense of being slightly happier for reconnecting to life in London, escaping my routines, and taking on a few of the ways of another culture, even briefly.
On the plane, as I waited for the service trolley to arrive bearing the Indian Chicken Korma to be served by the attentive steward who called me “Madam,” I recognized how much I like the British sense of deference. That kind of reserve is something we Americans have too often let go of, in favor of being direct, even at times assuming a surprising belligerence toward others in defending our own views. I also like the way that at the Victoria and Albert Museum or the Tate Modern, my husband and I bought “concessions” tickets, rather than paying “senior citizen” fare. I love my flexible Oyster Card for traveling by tube or by bus; my familiarity with London neighborhoods, streets and shops; and the reality that I have friends there to meet for lunch or to go to the theater with.
The fact that my London identity included not just a job in St. John’s Wood at the American School (admittedly not exactly a British institution) but also a flat with an address — 43 Boundary Road, just off Abbey Road — always invites me to return to my former neighborhood. This year, my husband, two friends and I spent one late afternoon in Regent’s Park, not far from my old stomping grounds. The climbing roses were open and their yellows and pale pinks were inviting, as was their delicate scent. We were too early for the expanse of rose bushes I’d hoped to see in the Queen’s Garden, but tulips lingered on hillsides, bluebells lurked under a few of the trees, and the purple wisteria was intoxicating. Watching swans in a pond and two great blue herons along the shore deepened our pleasure. Topping off the excursion with hard cider and a dinner of fish ’n’ chips in a favorite pub made it a great evening.
I know my husband and I won’t again leave our lives here in the states to rent a flat in London, but insisting on an annual visit helps me maintain this link to elsewhere that I thrive on.
My wish for broader connections goes back a long way. I grew up in a small town in Iowa, and even as I adopted, adapted and conformed there during the 1950s, I yearned for a bigger world. My family, including my German immigrant grandparents, had always been travelers, and the tradition continued once I came along. I also enjoyed visits from my vibrant Aunt Harriet, who had become a Floridian, and listened to the stories of my mother. She, in her early 20s, had left that same small town in Iowa for a job in Washington, D.C., and in the post World War II 1940s traveled with one of her Iowa girlfriends by plane to Cuba!
By now, I have lived in a variety of places, each of which has left its mark on me and helped forge my identity. Today, though, as a woman retired in Vermont, it’s my vacations — especially my holidays in London — that help me maintain a sense of living a larger life, remind me that I enjoy being temporarily British. Just back, I have a couple of new books from Hatchard’s in Piccadilly, some flower-filled tea towels from Kew Gardens to give to friends here at home, a few jars of jam from Fortnum and Mason, a couple of wedges of cheese from Neal’s Yard, and enough memories to last the year — as well as The Times of London here on my desk.
Getting away can make a difference. We need to leave home, at least for a time. By hitting the road, we give ourselves the chance to escape our narrowness, learn something about the world, and enjoy life a little bit more.
Summer lies ahead. Make the most of it!
Mary K. Otto lives in Norwich.